


What was promised

by paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Goldsickness, Happy Ending, M/M, Marriage, botfa setting, but they fight their way through, everybody lives au, make for a bad combination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:16:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5180006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps Bilbo is being selfish. But even though he knows that Thorin's mind has grown clouded from cursed gold, he is unwilling to give up on the intimacy they share. And when Thorin - with his mind still bespelled - asks for his hand, Bilbo does not decline either.</p>
<p>With armies before the gate and a battle to come, things must come to a head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KuroCyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuroCyou/gifts).



> This has a happy ending!
> 
> (Happy birthday, kuro!)

Bilbo knows he is being selfish. But when Thorin's fingers slide into his hair and warm lips cover his, Bilbo willfully forgets about the gold clouding Thorin's mind, the smoking ruins of Laketown and the desolation outside. Instead he allows his eyes to flutter shut, reaches up to grip Thorin's shoulders and loses himself in the heat.

A shiver runs down his spine, he parts his lips. Thorin accepts the invitation, surges forward and uses his hand to pull Bilbo closer, until he is helplessly caught between Thorin's arms and his lips and there is nowhere in the world he'd rather be. When his toes lift from the ground Bilbo groans, wraps his legs around Thorin's thighs, and the stretch is awkward and delicious and Thorin chuckles.

"Let us take this elsewhere," he whispers huskily against Bilbo's throat.

"But of course, my King," Bilbo agrees as his lips brush Thorin’s cheek.

***

Later, when Bilbo basks in the bliss of satisfaction, Thorin reaches over to stroke his hair. It has grown long, Bilbo thinks, long enough for Thorin to run a hand through, let the curls catch around his fingers, and Bilbo enjoys the way it pulls at his skin just so. He feels like a cat, inclined to stretch and purr, while Thorin smiles down at him, features soft with affection. 

"I would have you by my side," he says, cupping Bilbo's face, "Forever, if you are amenable."

"And I will stay if you ask me to," Bilbo replies, his heart warming. A part of him warns him off, tells him to proceed with caution. For isn't Thorin still caught in the throes of goldsickness, is this perhaps not truly Thorin speaking?

But it is what Bilbo's heart desires.

Thorin's smile widens and he dips down to plant a kiss on Bilbo's forehead. "I should have courted you with the greatest honors. Given you gifts that would make the Valar pale with envy."

"This is quite fine, Thorin," Bilbo replies easily and reaches up to pull Thorin against him, "To me, you are the greatest gift of them all." Whether in these chambers of ancient splendor in Erebor of the decrepit room they share in Laketown, being at Thorin’s side is what Bilbo’s heart desires above all.

He hooks his foot behind Thorin's ankle and pulls. The king loses his balance - but catches himself on his elbows and instead of falling atop of Bilbo, he hovers a hair's breadth above him. "It is not right, though," Thorin says, his eyes transfixed by Bilbo's, "Erebor's consort should only be courted with the greatest honor. These romps..."

"Are wonderful," Bilbo finishes decisively and lifts his head to plant a peck on Thorin's lips. He still can fairly taste himself there, and it makes him smile a little wider. For these precious few moments, the world is alright.

But Thorin's thoughts have begun to drift. "It is a matter," he says, "I should amend. Yes, make it so none could question your honor." His eyes come to rest on Bilbo once more, and there is true trepidation in them now and Bilbo holds his breath.

"Bilbo Baggins," Thorin asks, "Would you honor me by becoming my consort?"

And this is mad and not respectable and entirely insane, so Bilbo smiles beatifically and says "Yes."

***

Bilbo doesn't know what he expected. The world does not stop turning during those moments he spends with Thorin away from prying eyes. And even if Thorin seems himself then, the goldsickness is undeniable whenever he stalks through the treasury, demanding their companions look harder, longer.

Find the Arkenstone. That still sits among Bilbo's possessions.

He's about to hand it over when Thorin rejects Bard's request for aid and orders Erebor's entrance walled in. The dwarves obey, but Bilbo sees in their faces the doubt and the unease that plagues his own mind.

And as if that was not enough, the night the wall is built, Thorin calls them all to the treasury for a celebration.

"Dearest friends and companions," Thorin begins grandly, his black fur coat swaying behind him as he walks over the gold, "Tonight we do not only celebrate having retaken our home. Tonight, there is another joyous occasion I am asking you to witness."

The dwarves shuffle their feet, though Balin and Gloin turn to look at Bilbo. A shudder runs down his spine, and when Thorin beckons his forward, Bilbo momentarily freezes.

This Thorin - wearing his golden crown, shining armor and grand coat - is not the one Bilbo desires. Not the one he shared intimacy with - and yet he is the fool, because this is Thorin. Bilbo was the one blinding himself to the fact that the goldsickness also courses through the veins of the dwarf he made love to.

Thorin smiles softly at Bilbo and holds out his hand. Caught in a nightmare with no escape, Bilbo swallows down the dread in his chest and steps forward.

"Tonight," Thorin announces grandly and Bilbo's head spins, "I will take Bilbo Baggins of the Shire as my consort. And I ask you, my companions, to be our witnesses."

Thorin turns to Balin, but Bilbo stares at his friends long enough to see their faces twist. Worry on Fili's face, doubt on Kili's. Ori nervously twists the hem of his tunic, while Dori's face has gone hard and flat, and Bofur looks angry toward Thorin. They needn't worry for him, Bilbo wants to tell them, but the words are stuck in his throat.

Because he doesn't know if he would speak the truth.

"Balin, you know the words," Thorin says, blind to the tense, joyless atmosphere around them, "Would you do the honors?"

Balin catches Bilbo's eye and the hobbit can see the question there. But what choice do they have? Bilbo has told Thorin yes, and he loves him - he hasn't changed his mind, is he cannot say no, but he never wanted to be married like this.

"Of course, lad," Balin tells Thorin, "Bilbo?"

"Sure," Bilbo says shakily. Thorin turns to him with a bright smile that tears Bilbo's heart in two - and he takes a deep breath and tells himself to face it. There have been odder marriages, after all, and he does love Thorin.

"Where shall we do the ceremony?" Balin inquires, gazing at the mountains of gold surrounding them. "Traditionally we used to -"

"We will hold it here," Thorin interrupts, and then turns to Bilbo apologetically, "We can always have another ceremony in the grand chambers once it has been restored. But now I believe the treasury suits best."

It does, doesn't it, Bilbo thinks to himself as he allows Thorin to lead him. A goldsick King marrying among his gold - does that make him but a part of his treasure? The notion makes Bilbo nearly physically recoil. As it is, his foot catches and he stumbles. Only to have Thorin catch him gently by the shoulders and direct him forward.

Ahead a small plateau has been event among the gold, looking like a crude rendition of the speaker's protest used in Hobbiton to officiate weddings. Before Bilbo spies several items, but Thorin is a step ahead of him.

"I know you dislike these robes, but for tonight I would ask you to wear this coat," Thorin says and picks up a large, jewel-covered velvet coat from the ground. The patterns are stunning, the embroidery done in gold and silver and sapphires larger than Bilbo's hand line the sleeves.

He doesn't know when he nods, but when Thorin lays the cloak on his shoulders, Bilbo's knees threaten to buckle. It must weigh nearly as much as a young hobbit - too much for Bilbo, too much for a wedding, and for a moment everything races closer, intent on crushing him.

Then Thorin is there and brushes a hand through Bilbo's hair. "I would braid your hair with rubies and sapphires and Mithril beads," he confesses with a tender chuckle, "But this must wait until I have time to forge these for you. Tonight, I would weave these into your hair."

Bilbo does not see what gems Thorin puts into his hair. But when he catches a glimpse of their companions’ solemn faces over Thorin's shoulder, his heart shudders. What must he look like now - a dress-up doll for a mad king?

This is not a wedding he wants, he realizes and his eyes start to burn.

Thorin takes his hand. "This ring," he says, "Was my mothers, and my grandmother's before here. Always it has been worn by the consort of Erebor and now it shall be yours." He smiles, eyes bright with hope and love and Bilbo wants to cry all the more. The ring is too heavy and barely fits - it's not made for hobbits, but nothing here is.

Hobbits wed with flowers and cake under the open skies, not with gold and diamonds under the stone of a mountain. He thought he had become less of a hobbit on his journey. Thought he'd gotten used to the ways of dwarves.

He has never been so wrong.

But Bilbo dutifully blinks the tears away and after Balin has spoken the world - words he cannot understand for they are in Khuzdul - and Thorin has given his vow, Bilbo bravely does the same. And when he finally can kiss Thorin, he closes his eyes and allows himself to forget.

At least this moment he will claim for himself.

***

But a moment is a moment, and while Thorin plies Bilbo with affection, the rest of the company earns his growing distrust. The situation outside worsens as Thranduil arrives with an entire army - and Bilbo doesn't know whom to blame.

At last there is no way out.

He will trade the Arkenstone. It may cost him everything, but it will hopefully be enough to save their lives.

***

Fury twists Thorin's features as he learns of Bilbo's treachery. "You," he seethes, advancing, "You would steal from me?"

Bilbo stands his ground, fights the instinct to recoil. "You are not yourself!" he yells, uncaring as to what he must look like to the hundreds watching below, "Thorin, you gave your word!"

Thorin isn't listening. "I am betrayed," he proclaims, voice hitching and the light in his eyes is no longer sane. Dread runs down Bilbo's spine and he abruptly realizes just how easily this could become so much worse. A cold wind tears at his hair, and the oversized cloak he is wrapped in, and he braces himself for a blow.

It never comes. Instead, Thorin's callused palm settled gently against the curve of Bilbo's cheek, his thumb brushing over the fragile skin of Bilbo's throat. Bilbo’s breath hitches, his mind screams at him to run, but his heart is spellbound.

"Betrayed by the one I love."

"Thorin," Bilbo stutters, forcing himself to push on despite his growing fear and pain, "Thorin, you are not betrayed. I took it for my share – you will have it back. Once my part of the treasure is paid out, we will get it back. Thorin, this is no betrayal. Thorin, please."

Thorin's lips curve in a sad smile. "You have always been too clever, Bilbo," he shakes his head and Bilbo is shocked to see tears in his eyes, "You have taken my heart, and now my kingdom. But fear not, my beloved, they were yours all along."

And with that he turns, away from the armies below and toward the mountain, his shoulders hunched in defeat.

Bilbo stares after him, frozen as the world around him falls apart. The pain in Thorin’s eyes echoes in his own heart, and what did he do? This wasn’t supposed to happen like this, Thorin was supposed to see and then everything would be fine and –

Balin’s voice pierces the fog enveloping Bilbo’s mind. "Thorin, what do we -"

Thorin, already half-way down the stairs leading inside the mountain, does not turn. "Let the consort decide. Erebor and all its belongings are his to do with as he pleases."

No, Bilbo wants to scream. No! This is Thorin’s home, this is what he fought for so hard, he cannot give up on it now, cannot allow the hurt to take over. This isn’t what is supposed to happen, and Bilbo finds his throat has closed.

But all now look to him. Their eyes wide, expectant and deeply uncertain his friends look at Bilbo and in that moment a wide gap seems to have opened between them. Bilbo’s mind spins, his heart races – he is a hobbit, he is no ruler, he cannot decide this.

"What will it be then, my liege?" Balin asks, looking tired.

“Peace,” Bilbo stammers, “Peace. We pay them my share for the Arkenstone.”

“Aye, my liege,” Balin concurs and Bilbo wants nothing more than for this all to stop. Because these dwarves are his friends, and friends do not bow to each other nor stare at him as if afraid.

This has all gone wrong.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin comes to his senses, Bilbo attempts something foolish and they have their happy ending.
> 
> Beware - this chapter gets quite violent at times and Bilbo loses two fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, part two. :)

“Thorin! Thorin!” Bilbo shouts as he races down the stairs, ignoring the way his feet slip on the cold marble and blind to the gaping abysses left and right. “Thorin!”

He needs to make him understand, make him see! They have peace now, everything can be sorted out in time, and Bilbo just wants to banish that terrible heartbreak from Thorin’s eyes. “Thorin!” he shouts again, turning down another staircase, ignoring the voice asking what he will do if Thorin does not want to see him.

Bilbo is still a strange to Erebor who barely knows anything beyond the main corridors. Thorin must know where to go and not be found, must know the mountain’s secrets. If he does not wish for Bilbo to find him, if he never wants to see Bilbo again, he can do so, and that scares Bilbo more than anything.

“Thorin!” Bilbo shouts, his heart leaping as he catches sight of a shape moving far below. “Thorin, wait!”

The King under the Mountain does not stop, nor does he give any indication of having heard Bilbo. He walks forward, his head bowed, and Bilbo doesn’t know where he is going or what he is doing, but he runs as fast as he can, until his lungs burn and his legs ache.

“Thorin!” He takes two steps at once, and finally reaches the same level as the King, who still has not stopped.

Gulping down a deep breath, Bilbo surges forward until he stands directly before Thorin, blocking his way forward, and his heart hammers in his chest.

“Thorin, wait, please,” he gasps out, searching for Thorin’s eyes and finding them red-rimmed and shuttered, “Please, let me explain.”

Thorin’s lip curls. “Save your pretty words,” he says, but it lacks all emotional inflection and fear surges through Bilbo again, “You have already won. Do not haunt me for more; I have nothing left to give.”

He makes to step past Bilbo, but the hobbit gets in his way, reaches out to grasp Thorin’s furs. “No, Thorin, no,” he pleads, his voice cracking, “You misunderstood, Thorin, I, I, I have not betrayed you. Nobody has, nobody will. Erebor is yours and –“

“Leave me, little rat,” Thorin says and gently detaches Bilbo’s hands from his collar. With no visible reaction he reaches up, plucks the crown from his head and sets it down on Bilbo’s. It’s too large and too heavy and immediately begins to slip over Bilbo’s eyes, so he has to reach up and steady it before it can fall, has to let go of Thorin to catch the crown.

Thorin uses the moment to pass Bilbo. “Keep it and do as you wish. This is yours now.”

“No, Thorin –“ Bilbo begins, turning after him as Thorin turns to another staircase leading further down into the dark heart of the mountain. But before he can follow, Fili calls his name.

“Bilbo! Bilbo! There you are!” the young dwarf waves from high above, “You need to come, quickly!”

“What is it?” Bilbo asks, watching Thorin grow farther and farther from the corner of his eye and he wants to run after him, but he is caught, with the crown on his head and Fili looking at him with wide eyes.

“Come!” Fili calls.

Thorin has almost disappeared from view.

“I can’t –“

“You must!”

***

When Bilbo had traded away the Arkenstone he had envisioned many things. But not having to stand upon the parapet, clutching Erebor’s crown and looking out onto a battle. Dust and smoke rise up, blurring the moving shapes into a wild cacophony of screams and screeching metal.

“Dain arrived moments after you left,” Fili tells him breathlessly, “We told him we’d not fight the elves, but it was for naught – the orcs got here first.”

“Orcs?” Bilbo echoes, dumbfounded. He cannot believe what he sees; thinks that this must be a bad dream. How can a day go so wrong?

Fili nods, anxiously gazing onto the battlefield. “Azog leads them.”

Bilbo’s blood runs cold. If Azog is here - what chance do they have? Elves and dwarves and men fight best as they can, but they are surprised, outnumbered. And more orcs keep coming. The mountains seem to crawl with them, and despair rises in Bilbo’s chest.

“What do we do?” he asks, tonelessly.

Balin emerges from the shadows and chuckles mirthlessly. “That is what you must decide.”

Icy dread runs down his spine. Bilbo turns to his friends and sees them all watch him expectantly. They should not look at him like this, should not await orders from him. He’s but a little hobbit –

Who holds the crown of Erebor in his hands.

“What should we do?” he asks, feeling terribly cold and unprepared.

“Fight,” Kili speaks up quietly, but passionately, “Let us not cower while our kinsmen die for us out there. This is our battle!”

“Aye.” Dwalin nods firmly, and Bilbo finds that grim determination mirrored in all their faces. So this is where their journey ends, he thinks faintly. Here – when the dragon has been slain and all seemed well, fate has finally turned on them.

Not even his magic ring will save them.

“There is also the matter of the Laketown refugees,” Balin volunteers, “They are hiding in Dale, but –“

He gestures ahead and Bilbo can see the black smoke billowing up from the cities’ outer circles. Dale cannot be defended.

But Erebor can.

He takes a deep breath, steels his trembling hands and speaks: “Then I would have them shelter here, if I can decide this.”

Balin inclines his head, Dwalin grunts in agreement.

“And,” Bilbo continues, “I understand little of war. But should it help us win this – I want as many to retreat to Erebor as possible. It is, I would think, easier to defend.”

“Aye,” Gloin agrees, and the other dwarves nod. But in their faces Bilbo cannot read what they make of his decision – whether or not he is making things worse. But there is no time to wonder – they already turn to go below, gather their weapons.

And then it is time to face their end.

***

Deeper and deeper Thorin descends into the mountain. Around him the world becomes black and empty, and is that not fitting? He who lost everything will go now and disappear into the darkness, vanish into nothingness, and if those traitors succeed not even his name will be remembered.

But his heart has settled. Where there was a roar, where there was rage now has come tranquility. He has tired of fighting. If now he can rest, he will accept the hand fate dealt him – it was never kind to him, anyway, and if disappearing is to be his final act, then he will do it.

Though there is some irony to it that what he perceived to be his greatest blessing should now bring about his end.

As he walks down toward the crypts, he allows his mind to wander. Remembers those strenuous meetings, all the doubts and expectations casts his way. What a relief it was to finally be on the road, free from the politics – though their quest seemed doomed then.

What an elation it had been to find Gandalf’s burglar competent despite his first impression. And to find, for the first time in his life, a sort of connection between himself and another; feel the intimacy he heard about but had never experienced.

Bilbo Baggins had truly and well betrayed him. But he had looked splendid in his wedding garb, and Thorin finds his lips curling at the memory. He does not regret giving his heart away. Having those moments they shared – if he is to disappear, he will take them as a parting gift.

And so Thorin comes before the graves of his ancestors.

What would they make of him, he wonders? He has done what his grandfather dreamed of, what his father could not – Erebor has been reclaimed. Yet as he looks at the graves he wonders if they will blame him for not stopping the betrayal.

His grandfather had used to warn of treachery. Thror had, in his later days, feared conspiracies – and grown strange and withdrawn for it.

Thorin’s feet come unwillingly to a stop.

Thror had accused many of betrayal. Not even relations had been spared, and he had often muttered that at least the gold would not betray him. The gold he could trust – and that had, or so the tale had been told to Thorin, broken his grandmother’s heart long before the dragon had come.

He blinks. Something in the back of his mind has sparked, some connection been made.

Thror –

Had been rather like him.

Thorin frowns. He does not like comparing himself to his grandfather, though it had been frequently done. They resemble each other, he knows that, though he had sworn himself not to fall prey to the gold as Thror had done.

All of a sudden, Thorin finds he is no longer tired. His memories trickle in – but this time the filter of treachery has vanished. And though gold glows seductively even in his mind, he now sees the shadows in the eyes of his companions. The grim set to their faces, the way Balin grimaced after every order and the way Kili challenged him.

Not because they were planning to betray him.

But because he had betrayed them.

Before his eyes he can see Bilbo during their marriage ceremony once more. Dressed up in dwarven clothing, decked out in gold – a doll created for Thorin’s own desires, and regret runs through Thorin’s veins like fire. He should have seen it then; the doubt in Bilbo’s eyes is clear even in his recollections. Yet he had allowed himself to be caught up in a vision of his own making.

Perhaps it was best he simply disappeared. His kin would be free to move forward –

But that would mean allowing the voices that called Bilbo and his kin traitor to win.

No, Thorin tells himself quietly and turns around, they won’t. Whatever price he must pay for his mistakes, he will. Though he will not allow his kin and Bilbo to part from him believing he thought them treacherous.

***

The air smells of smoke and charred flesh. Bilbo has gone deaf from the screams and the clash of weapons and the roar of falling stone. There is no order to this chaos, this mad symphony of hacking and slashing and struggling to survive.

He ducks underneath a blade that swings through to catch an orc in the throat. Black blood sprays, but Bilbo does not stop, does not watch. Does not look down at the blood and grim staining his feet or at the bodies he walks past. Elves and men and dwarves and orcs, and so many dead.

So few that retreated into the mountain.

At least they have a chance, Bilbo thinks and grips Sting tighter with clammy fingers. He should not be out here, should have heeded Balin and Bard, but when he realized –

“The stone’s still in Dale, I left it in my tent,” Bard had exclaimed as he’d been dragged into Erebor, struggling to rejoin the battle though he bled heavily. Bilbo’s blood had run cold, then.

He’d traded it away, knowing it was Thorin’s heart, but thinking he may regain it.

Should Azog or any orc take hold of it…

Bilbo had ignored Ori shouting his name. He’d slipped on his ring and vanished into the madness outside.

But invisibility only helps so much when Dale’s narrow streets are filled with fallen bodies, broken stone and malevolent orcs. He dodges and stumbles and scrambles out of the way, but it’s all so close, and sometimes they fall against him as they die, orc and men alike, and clutch at him in despair, their nails digging through Bilbo’s coat.

He stumbles on, his head caught in a terrible daze.

Up, up, up. He remembers where the tent sits, if only he can make it. If the orcs have not yet found the stone –

There, the tent! It’s red canvas sits over at the end of the square; its color dimmed by smoke and fog. Bilbo exhales shortly, and then dives between a pair of struggling fighters, running as fast as his feet carry him. His body aches and throbs in protest and his chest burns, but the tent looks undisturbed, so maybe his luck holds. Maybe one thing will go right on this terrible day.

He slips inside, quietly, and freezes as two orcs turn into his direction.

“What was that?” one asks in thickly accented Westron.

The other shrugs with a deformed shoulder. “Wind.” Its voice is like nails on chalkboard, and Bilbo holds his breath, does not dare to move, until both have turned away again. His heart pounds to loud they must hear it, and it must be the smell of blood and despair outside that covers the sweat soaking his back.

In the tent, everything seems dimmed and distant. Bilbo wonders if the two orcs are here to guard the stone – the bundle sits yet undisturbed on the table, and relief courses through him strong enough to make his knees buckle. Bilbo bites down on his lip before he can make a noise. He can taste warm, coppery liquid on his tongue, and ignores it.

One step.

Another.

The orcs seem distracted, with their back half-turned toward the table. They must watch the battle outside.

If he is quick –

Bilbo reaches out. One of the orcs shifts, he stops. His hand hovers in mid-air, a mere hand’s length away from the wrapped Arkenstone. He doesn’t dare to breathe.

The orc turns its head away.

And Bilbo grabs the stone.

The bundle has a familiar weight, and his heart hitches in triumph because he has it, has it, and now he can give it back, and hopefully Thorin will recover and things will turn alright again –

“Oi!” one orc shouts, turning abruptly, “The stone!”

“It’s gone!” the second exclaims, expression darkening, “But it was just here.”

The first orc draws a long, dirty sword and swings, Bilbo has to duck, but stumbles and crashes into the table, and the orcs yell, and his blood runs cold. His game is up; invisibility won’t help him, and he is frozen a moment too long, because an orcish prank catches his arm at an odd angle and forces it against the table.

“Here, here, I have it!” the orc crows and Bilbo struggles, but he can’t turn his hand, because he still holds onto the Arkenstone and if he drops it, he’ll lose it, and then this will have been for nothing. Panic rises in his veins; why did he screw up like this, how can he save it, how can he –

The orc draws his sword back and Bilbo abruptly knows what he has to do.

He drops the stone and simultaneously catches it with his other hand. Twists the caught arm so that the orc has to let go –

But he is not quite fast enough.

The blade hits the wood of the table with enough force to splinter it and something icy and hot races through Bilbo’s hand, up his arm and straight into his brain, but he doesn’t register it, nor the sound of something hitting the ground. Something is wrong, his mind screams, utterly, horribly wrong; and he is running, dodging, and the orcs scream because he is invisible again, and they have lost him.

Bilbo doesn’t wait. He ducks out of the tent, not caring that this gives him away, and vanishes into the fight outside. They won’t be able to track him here, he thinks, as he stumbles toward the broken walls of a building, they can’t see him. Breathing heavily, he leans against it, struggling to quell his racing heart.

That was close, far too close, and they could still find him, could still catch him. Bilbo forces himself to look up, finds his corner shaded by a crumbling building, and none here except for two dead orcs. Their bloods sticks to his feet, his stomach turns and he makes to reach up and wipe the sweaty hair from his brow.

In passing his eyes catch sight of the bloody hand print on the stone.

Bilbo flinches, his eyes widen, and in disbelief he looks at his own shaking hand.

Both, his little finger and his ring finger are gone. Cut off just above the knuckle, and his entire hand is covered in thick, dark red blood. Bilbo stares at it.

His fingers –

He felt something cold and sharp when he rolled from the table, but he thought he got away. There wasn’t any pain. This is not possible. He would have –

An orcish roar forces him from his contemplations, and Bilbo sways back, just before an orc and a dwarf crash into the wall where he’d just been standing. Stone crumbles, dust rises, and Bilbo presses his hand to his chest, struggling to regain his orientation is the blurred mist of invisibility.

This isn’t the time to mourn lost fingers, he thinks dizzily. And it doesn’t hurt at all, so it’s not that bad. He got the stone. Now he only needs to get it back to Thorin.

Perhaps then things will be right again.

***

Regret and guilt are old friends to Thorin. For much of his life he has wondered if he could not have stopped his grandfather’s growing madness, or have stopped the dragon. If not more lives could have been saved, had been faster, better, wiser.

Now, it wraps around his shoulders like a familiar cloak. Shadowing each step he takes toward the gate, well aware of the curious eyes watching him. The young and the old and the wounded, they all sit here as a few dwarven and elvish healers fight to save their lives. Outside the battle rages, and it is his shame to not be there yet.

But his mind has cleared.

And he must make amends.

Thorin tightens his grip on his sword. The polished armor he left deep inside the mountain, together with the rest of the finery. One day, a King may wear it to court, but it is likely this King will not be Thorin. Clad in his travel leathers and light armor, he feels more like himself than he did before.

Perhaps King under the Mountain was never his role. Perhaps King in exile was the part he was made for, after all. In which case he will no put an end to the chapter of dwarven exile and by what power he holds face down the orcs; if he has to cut down each one himself.

If there is time, he would like to speak to his companions. They deserve an apology and much praise for standing with him during his crazy venture.

And he would like to speak to Bilbo. Tell him, that while goldlust twisted his affections, they were never false and still remain true. Tell him that those oaths they spoke under the influence of the curse are not binding; tell him that Thorin will lay not any claim on Bilbo’s heart the hobbit does not desire.

But, as he walks toward the small gap the dwarves have kept open and sees the black smoke billowing over the battlefield, the thick clouds of fog rolling over Dale, smells death and fear and doom, he knows that time is not with him.

A cold wind blows.

He will face what he must.

Thorin squares his shoulders, raises his foot – and stumbles backward as an invisible shape crashes into him, shoving them both off balance, and Thorin has to fumble to catch himself against the stones. Somebody shouts, and a guard inquires as to what is happening, their weapons blindly poking the air for any invisible enemy, while Thorin feels a small body press against his chest.

A familiar small body.

His heart skips a beat, even before he hears the hoarse cough and a familiar voice calling his name.

“Thorin, Thorin, I –“ with a plop Bilbo appears before him; his pale face splattered with blood and grime – “I got it, I got it back! Like I promised, it was never stolen, and I never meant to betray you I only –“

He sways and Thorin reaches out to steady him. Small tremors run through Bilbo’s body and his eyes are wide, unfocused, and Thorin looks him over. Spies the glint of mithril from below Bilbo’s coat, and if he wears the shirt, he should be alright, should be fine –

Bilbo presses something against his chest. It’s a familiar bundle, wrapped in dark, bloodstained cloth.

“I got it back,” Bilbo tells him with not-quite-there smile, “I got it.”

He lets go, and Thorin has no choice but the catch the bundle. The Arkenstone’s bright light sneaks through a gap in the fabric, yet it cannot hold Thorin’s attention for more than a split moment. He sets the stone aside, reaches toward Bilbo, as the hobbit lifts a shaky hand to run through his hair, and stops.

The hand is utterly covered in blood. And missing two fingers.

Thorin’s stomach twists and he reaches out to catch Bilbo’s wrist before he knows what he is doing. Bilbo makes a sound of protest as Thorin drags the mangled limb closer, ignores the bile rising in his throat.

The cut is clean, sharp, but bleeding heavily, and Bilbo is terribly pale and only struggles weakly against him.

He shouldn’t be touching Bilbo like this –

“’m sorry,” Bilbo mumbles, allowing himself to lean against Thorin. And Thorin knows what is happening, knows that exhaustion must be hitting Bilbo hard now, but his mind frets, and Bilbo smiles sadly at him, “I lost your ring. I… I think I know where it is … I will go and fetch it. Just wait here. I’ll be back in a moment…”

Bilbo makes to turn, but at last his knees give out.

Thorin catches him easily, though his feet are glued to the ground in bewilderment. So much this hobbit has done, so much he has suffered – and all for him. Even after Thorin practically forced his vows and dragged him into sick parody of matrimony, even after his cold words –

He swallows and tightens his grip on the body in his arms. In sleep, Bilbo always seems to much smaller – and Thorin should have never allowed him out on the battlefield. Never should have gotten him hurt.

Never should have let Bilbo to believe he might value treasure and trinkets above the lives of his companions.

“Oin,” Thorin shouts, “Healers!”

***

The battle rages on for a full day and a night. Only when morning dawns and the eagles glide from the sky the tide of the fight is finally turned. Thorin watches the chaos from above, breathing hard as blood trickles down his face.

Azog lies dead behind him. Bolg’s body down below – he watched Kili and Fili trick him with the help of two elves just before the first sunrays broke through the fog. Now, the clouds are lifting and cold, clean air blows in from the west, putting out the fires and cooling the sweat on Thorin’s brow.

A strange sort of numbness runs through his veins as he watches the orcs scatter and flee. This should be his moment of triumph. Instead he feels exhausted, weary and dazed. Those last day and night seem like a lifetime, and he takes this last moment of quietude to breathe.

Once he descends there are arrangements to make, apologies to be spoken. Erebor needs to be settled, Bard needs to be paid. And he will return the gems to Thranduil, if it means his kin may travel undisturbed through Mirkwood.

He needs to speak to Bilbo, too.

And while perhaps anyone else may have taken the chance and turned their back on the battlefield and vanished into the wilderness to let the afterimage of a great warrior live on, Thorin has never shied from his duties.

***

Bilbo has been awake for a few hours. His head aches fiercely, but at least his hand is numb. It has been wrapped so thickly Bilbo’s arm appears to end in a large white ball. The healers have forbidden him from leaving his bed, though at least Bofur and Fili have stopped by to give him the news.

So even though Bilbo knows Thorin survived, he is taken aback when the mud- and blood-stained form of Thorin Oakenshield makes his way through the rows of sick and injured towards Bilbo’s bed.

For a moment Bilbo thinks Thorin will reach out, cup his face and kiss him. Instead Thorin freezes, stops an arm’s length away and stands there stiffly.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin begins formally, though his features are gentle, “I know of no words to apologize for both what brought upon you, and for leading you into such peril. I am sorry, and if you have any wish of me, I beg you to ask.”

Bilbo shifts, swallows. Where do they stand – why is Thorin so distanced, why so formal?

“In that vein,” Thorin fumbles for something and produces a ring. A bright, gaudy ring that sat on Bilbo’s ring finger, shortly before said finger got cut off – Bilbo’s stomach flips, and he grimaces.

“I gave this to you, and forced you to speak vows without asking your consent,” Thorin says and his eyes turn sad, “Know that these vows do not bind you. The rites were conducted under a curse, and as such cannot stand. I will ask Balin to destroy the contract as soon as possible.” He has to stop and swallow. “But I would give this to you, both as a sign of my gratitude for making the decision I could not and leading Erebor in my stead. Should you ever have need of me or mine, it is yours.”

Bilbo’s mind spins. Thorin is… annulling their marriage? Turning Bilbo from husband into a divorcee in a matter of days? His heart screeches in protest; nearly breaking. Thorin cannot – Thorin cannot be casting him out, not if what he felt was ever true. But what –

But what if Thorin never felt anything for him? What if it was only the goldsickness that made Bilbo desirable to the King under the Mountain?

Tears rise in Bilbo’s eyes. “I don’t want it,” he bursts out, and it is testament to his failing control and exhaustion that his voice breaks and he cannot stay calm, “If it all was just a lie, I don’t want your ring, Thorin.”

He buries his face in his hands. A fine mess, he thinks and wipes furiously at his eyes with his good hand. To crumble like this – his parents taught him better. The exhaustion, the injury, certainly, but he wishes, wishes Thorin had given him another day. Just a little more time for Bilbo to recover from the battle before delivering this blow.

“Bilbo, I …” Thorin stammers, and Bilbo feels the bed dip, as a larger weight settles next to him, “The gold twisted me into many things, but my feelings were always true.”

“But –“ Bilbo blubbers, glancing up in surprise.

Thorin’s features soften, and now he reaches out to gently bury a hand in Bilbo’s hair. “I have loved you for a long time, Bilbo Baggins, and I will love you for the rest of my life. But I have wronged you, and for this will not force you to anything you do not wish.”

And Bilbo’s foolish heart choses this moment to fall in love all over again. He must look a terrible mess – dirty, teary – and yet he cannot tear his eyes from Thorin’s, cannot help the hope blossoming in his chest. Cannot stop himself from leaning forward.

“You have never forced me to anything, Thorin,” he says, quietly, “And when I spoke my vows I knew that you were cursed – but in that, I was just as greedy, because whatever you would give me, I would take. And that has not changed, Thorin. What you will give me, what you will share with me, I will take.”

“So if your heart has not changed,” Bilbo says, his words brushing against Thorin’s lips, “Then I will take it, and you have mine in turn.”

And then he stretches his neck just enough to seal the vow with a kiss.

  _End_

**Author's Note:**

> Second part will go up on friday. If it doesn't, haunt me on [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com).


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